


a slender thread of hope around your heart

by mollivanders



Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016), Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, F/M, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Gen, RebelCaptain May the Fourth Exchange, Sharing a Bed, Undercover as a Couple, fake kissing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-05
Updated: 2017-05-05
Packaged: 2018-10-28 06:46:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,055
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10825953
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mollivanders/pseuds/mollivanders
Summary: Next to her, Cassian freezes, catching at her hand. Gears are turning in his mind as he steps them closer to the wall.“I think we lost them,” she says, trying to catch her breath, and he shakes his head. “Not quite,” he says, and damned if she doesn’t hear an officer’s berating voice around the corner. His tongue darts out, wetting his lips, and her eyes lock with his. Her heart is still pounding from the race when he leans in, his body framing her in a secure embrace against the wall, heady and overwhelming.(She is still untangling the code in his gestures but this – oh this, she recognizes.)She meets his gaze in anticipation, his hands settling at her hips, and briefly wonders whether this is absolutely necessary for the mission.A moment later, with the sweet brush of his lips against her own, she decides she doesn’t care.





	a slender thread of hope around your heart

**Author's Note:**

> Written for too-wise-to-woo-peaceably for the RebelCaptain Network May the Fourth Exchange. Prompt was undercover as fake marrieds and I went for it (more than I expected, so I hope you like this). There's also some plot - who'd have thought?

His debrief with Draven drags out, a long report from his entire crew that stretches on for hours. By the time Draven dismisses the rest of the soldiers, Cassian is running on fewer fumes than usual and totally unprepared for what comes next.

“We’ve learned the Emperor is hosting a vicennial celebration next month,” Draven says and hands Cassian a dossier on the mission details. “Governors and officers from several key systems are expected to attend. We anticipate the opportunity to complete several mission objectives, if it’s done right.” 

He knows the drill. _Intelligence. Sabotage._ Possibly more. Skimming the dossier, he takes in the highlights.

“The celebrations will run for a month,” Draven says, “so we need to use secure credentials for this.” He arches a querying eyebrow. “Is the Willix identity intact?” Cassian nods and Draven continues, a dry note entering his tone. “We can’t send an entire crew with you with security that tight. However, we can build an identity off the one you’ll be using. An attaché or aide-de-camp would be appropriate. However, we anticipate there may be advantages to a partner posing as a civilian.”

Cassian tucks his hands behind his back and nods. “Let me know by eighteen-hundred hours, Andor,” Draven adds, ending the conversation, and gestures for Cassian to leave. There’s a knowing look on the general’s face that suggests he already anticipates who Cassian is thinking of. “We’ll need to get working on that identity right away.”

Cassian nods, already on his way out. A thread of ridiculous hope tugs at him, no matter his attempts to ignore it. _There’s no way she’ll agree,_ he thinks to himself. It was too much to expect, this early into her commitment to the Rebellion.

(The thread of hope curls inside him all the same.)

+

Cassian finds her at dinner, a sliver of hope behind his eyes.

“Welcome home,” she says and then scrambles for more words as he smiles at her. “Bodhi missed you.” She gives the pilot a friendly shove from where he’s sitting next to her, engrossed in a conversation with Chirrut.

“I’m sure,” Cassian says, dropping into the seat next to her. He doesn’t seem very interested in his food – she can’t blame him. It’s edible, but that’s about all she’ll grant the Rebel chefs. Instead, he leans closer to her, his tone guarded. “I have a proposition for you.”

She furrows her brow and pushes her food away, waiting. Cassian has always had more words than she did and after a few months in the Rebellion, they’ve found a familiar rhythm between them.

“I need a partner for my next assignment,” he says. From the corner of her eye she can feel Chirrut watching them but ignores him, focusing on Cassian. “It’s on Coruscant, so you’d be a good fit. It’d be for a month, undercover. We wouldn’t leave for a few weeks – we need to establish my partner’s cover with mine – so there’s time to train.”

“Coruscant?” she asks and he nods, his gaze steady and constant. “For a month?” The prospect is daunting, though not for reasons that she wants to consider right now.

“We would be in Galactic City,” he says, stealing a glance at their friends. Chirrut, in particular, seems elaborately interested in whatever Bodhi has to say. She doesn’t believe the monk for an instant.

“What would I do?” she asks, genuinely curious. “I’m not a spy.”

He shrugs, dismissing this fact. “You survived on your own for years. You know how to blend in. It’s not my training, but it applies. We’d have several assignments for a mission like this – some of it will be improvised. Some will be support for embedded teams.”

_Embedded teams._ Of course the Rebellion had a resistance within the capital but the thought interests her. “So, intelligence,” she says with a note of _obviously_ , “sabotage?” He nods and she purses her lips. “But you want me,” she adds, missing the flush that creeps up his neck, “so you might want a thief.” 

He nods, a smile crinkling his eyes. “Among other reasons,” he says just before Chirrut coughs very loudly. Cassian shakes his head and continues. “You could go places I couldn’t,” he says. “As an attaché, or an aide-de-camp, nobody would look twice at you, but your cover might be harder to secure. As a civilian, we could integrate you more easily with my cover, with fewer questions.”

“For a month,” she says, letting her old Coruscanti accent emerge, testing herself. “Just the two of us?”

“And K2,” he adds. Her heartbeat quickens traitorously and Chirrut’s empty gaze shifts over to her. She frowns, more at herself than Chirrut. 

“There must be other spies,” she says, worry creeping back in her voice and he frowns. “People you’ve worked with before. Experienced. Why me?”

He leans forward, his voice earnest, and she’s worried she’s already agreed. “I don’t want just anyone there with me,” he says. “It’s going to be dangerous. We’ll be under pressure. I need someone I can trust.”

The word lingers between them, almost tangible, until she finally smiles. “Okay,” she agrees, her shoulders relaxing, and he smiles in return. “Okay. I can do that.” She frowns again, a stray thought pulling at her. “I’d be a civilian?” she asks.   
“What kind of civilian?”

+

“ _Married_?” Jyn asks next to him after Draven informs them of the cover they’ve chosen for her. He’s never heard her voice approach anything like _nervous_ before but he can almost detect a note of panic under the surface.

He can’t really blame her. He knew this was a possibility and he’s _still_ trying to think of ways around it. Unfortunately, given his choice of Jyn and the constraints of the mission, establishing a cover for the new wife of an Imperial officer _was_ the simplest solution.

“Problem, Sergeant Erso?” Draven asks, his tone suggesting that if there _was_ a problem that Sergeant Erso could cool her heels in the brig for a while. Draven wasn’t about to let a new recruit capsize his mission, no matter who else he was sending. Cassian turns his head to gauge her reaction, catching the hard clench of her jaw. “No problem, _sir_ ,” she answers and Cassian groans internally. 

It’s definitely a problem.

“You will be going as Kestra Willix, wife to Captain Cassein Willix,” Draven continues, handing them their ident cards and Jyn snorts under her breath. “Married six months. The captain has been granted leave of absence to attend the celebrations after his service on Mintaka III. Get your stories straight. You leave tomorrow.”

As they make their way back to general quarters, the scowl on Jyn’s face shifts back to nervous energy. Unfortunately, there aren’t any convenient outlets to expend that on at the moment and he pivots. “It’ll be fine,” he says, keeping his voice light and casual. “It’s a week to Coruscant. We have plenty of time to get our story straight. You already know most of this.”

Jyn nods, not looking at him, and when she breaks off to head to her quarters he reaches out, his fingers brushing at her arm as he calls her name.

“Jyn,” he says more urgently, and she finally looks up at him. Relief fades into more nerves as he sees the strain in her face and he schools his features into reassurance. “I’ll see you at dinner?” he asks. She doesn’t speak but nods firmly and tucks her chin, heading away down the hall.

It doesn’t matter, he decides. Whatever happens, he trusts her.

+

By the third day of the flight to Coruscant, she’s feeling more confident about the task ahead of them. She’d managed worse on her own and come out of alive; there was no reason this would be so different. It didn’t matter that her cover was a role she’d never used before, or that even her own mother wasn’t a typical Imperial officer’s wife, or that she’d be going back to a home she barely remembered. She could pretend to be Cassian’s wife for a month. 

It was just Cassian.

“I see you’ve decided to rejoin us,” K2 says when she appears from the cargo bay of the shuttle. She’d spent the first two days going over the expected schedule, any contacts they could expect to meet, potential opportunities for sabotage and theft and intelligence, and likely soft points in the Imperial system they could exploit.

(She hadn’t been avoiding Cassian. Not really.)

“Quiet, Kay,” Cassian mutters from the co-pilot seat, turning to look at her. She nods at him, trying to repave a friendly path, and though he doesn’t smile his shoulders relax. 

“Monitor for return transmissions from base,” he instructs K2 before sliding out of his seat to join sit next to her, a data pad loose in his hand. The bulkhead is warm against her back, the thrum of the ship’s engines keeping them alive, and she feels safer than she should.

“I looked at the celebration schedule,” she says before he can ask if she’s ready for this. “It’s a good plan.” She points at the data pad he was reading before she interrupted. “Updates?”

He passes her the data pad and she skims it. More parades, more speeches, dinners and galas every evening, culminating in a special appearance by the Emperor himself.

“Is that us?” she asks, wondering if the Alliance would pass up a chance to assassinate the Emperor. He shakes his head, taking the data pad back.

“The Alliance takes appropriate risks,” he says and she leans closer to him to look at the memo again. “The Emperor is surrounded by the Royal Guard. Beyond that, he’s a hard man to kill.”

“His Imperial Highness,” she drawls in her Coruscanti accent, leaning back, and he smiles at the disgust in her voice. 

“That’s coming back well,” he says. “You remember much from when you were there?” She shakes her head. “I was three,” she says. “How much do you remember from when you were three?”

Her question has no heat but still, he frowns. “I remember the house we lived in,” he says. “One of them, at least.” She stills, turning her head to look at him, and he smiles. “Not much though.”

A pause weighs between them before she ducks her head, toying out an idea. “I’ve been thinking about that,” she says. “The Alliance didn’t put many details in Kestra’s file. I think it works best if we use some of my story. Kestra could have been on Coruscant as a child before she left.”

“Your cover doesn’t have details on your parents,” he says. “It could work. Your occupation says you were a technical writer for the Rishki trade association.” She scoffs, settling back against the bulkhead. Cassian mimics her, his shoulder flush with hers, and she reminds herself they are supposed to be married. She can’t _react_ every time. “I spent time on Rishki,” she says, and tilts her head to look at him. “In prison. That works.”

The look he gives her could mean any one of a thousand things and she looks away again, suddenly exposed.

“How long?” he asks and she shakes her head. “Not long,” she says. “My partner came in a month.” He makes a sound next to her and she rolls her gaze back. “That wasn’t long,” she says, “with what we did.”

The moment stretches out between him before he finally nods, accepting her version of events. “Have you thought about how we met?” he asks and she blinks in confusion for a second. “Kesta and Cassein?” she asks and then catches herself. “Kest _ra_. Where did you come up with the name _Cassein_?”

“It was my idea,” K2 calls from the pilot’s seat and she rolls her eyes. “It was,” Cassian said. “We dug it out of his original files after I reprogrammed him.”

“Lucky,” she mutters. “Did Captain Willix ever go to Rishki?” Every detail of her cover has to link to his, or everything could fall apart.

“Yes,” he answers thoughtfully, adjusting on the bench next to her. “He was stationed there. He must have swept Kestra off her feet.” Jyn pulls her feet up under her and shakes her head in disagreement.

“No, I don’t think so,” she says, blustering confidence rising within her as she grins at him. “I think it went the other way.”

(Well. She can pretend.)

+

They dress for landing in Galactic City once they make it through the planet’s security. He’d packed light as an Imperial officer, his personal case filled with disguised weapons and other tools to support the mission. The gray suit fits him in smooth, predictable lines, and he adjusts his cap in the ‘fresher mirror with practiced familiarity. They’d debated how Jyn should present herself as an Imperial wife – there was no rulebook for her class of civilian. They’d landed on a simple travelling dress and boots, appropriate for her station but something she wouldn’t be awkwardly out of place as herself in. 

Still, nothing could prepare them for the impact of the city when the shuttle hatch opened. Draven had warned them – it was one thing to fight the Empire on the fringes of the galaxy, mingling with criminals and defectors along the Outer Rim. It was entirely another to maintain morale in the heart of the Empire itself.

(He had been here once before. The mission had been shorter, a cover that granted him access to senators allied with the Rebellion, and nothing like this. This, he thinks, was half the reason he wasn’t here alone.)

Galactic City didn’t have streets in the traditional sense. Instead, buildings several hundred stories high swept deep into the bowels of the city while speeders and ships raced along their edges. Perilous walkways criss-crossed the city and the multitude of lights was so bright that day never separated from night. The noise of the city was overwhelming, not to speak of the smell.

From across the landing platform, an Imperial aide rushed to greet them, her grey robes swirling around her feet. “Captain Willix!” she calls out, “I am Lystar Kren. I am here to escort you both to your rooms.”

_Kren_. A Rebel plant within the city, and one that would not be able to help most of the way. It was important to make contact though, and pass fresh intelligence into the city.

(The Alliance had missed many opportunities, but Draven had always known how to pick his operatives.)

He nods at Kren and offers Jyn his arm, the model Imperial officer and wife. “Ready?” he asks, his tone casual and suggestive as K2 clunks ahead of them. She nods firmly, eyes drinking in the city, and follows him off the ship.

Right now, he’d give just about his last credit for her thoughts.

+

Nothing here is familiar.

(Not that she expected it to be.)

She counts the steps from the shuttle to their rented rooms, a technique that Saw had taught her early on when she was under stress. The week’s flight had prepared her for the month ahead, but being back on Coruscant, in the heart of Imperial power, presented its own challenges.

When they step into their rented rooms, she stalls next to Cassian, overwhelmed at the sheer _space_. K2 halts with a _clank_ behind her and she stumbles forward on Cassian’s arm, jerking back into her cover.

(She hasn’t known this kind of luxury in years.)

Kren doesn’t miss a beat, showing them in and explaining the upcoming schedule of events as Cassian gently tugs at Jyn’s arm, pulling her along. She has trouble listening to Kren and feels like a three year old child again. The rooms are sumptuous – the best for a newly married Imperial captain, she supposes – and filled with highly convenient nooks for listening devices. They pass the kitchenette and Jyn slips out of Cassian’s grasp, determined to explore. If she was going to do this, she would do it _her_ way.

“As you can see,” Kren’s voice filters from another room, “the Emperor has arranged the best rooms for his loyal servants.”

“I do,” Captain Willix replies, his tone oily and obsequious. “His Imperial Highness is most gracious.”

The rooms include a kitchenette, an attached parlor, two complete ‘freshers, and a bedroom. She pauses, taking in the single bed, before quickly moving on. Of course. They were _married_ , if only on paper.

(She had to keep reminding herself of that.)

“Does your wife…” Kren’s voice trails off and Jyn drifts back to where Cassian and Kren are speaking in the parlor. “I’m quite fine,” Jyn interrupts, her tone firm but polite – an Imperial wife’s tone. Kren raises an eyebrow at her and she tenses at the look Kren gives Cassian.

_Is she cut out for this?_

“Thank you for your help,” Cassian says, clearly not worried, and Kren passes him a personal case with a shrug. _Your funeral._ She leaves with a rustle of lavish cloth, the door shutting behind her. 

Cassian gestures at Jyn and they sit in the parlor as he opens Kren’s case on the coffee table. From the chair next to him, she peers into case. It contains three data pads, a set of comms – probably tuned to avoid Imperial frequencies – and a scanner for listening devices.

She’s warming to Kren already.

“I’ll take another look around,” she says, picking up the scanner and Cassian nods. 

At the very least, maybe she’ll find a spare cot somewhere. K2 trails after her, insisting his systems are superior to hers, and for once she doesn’t begrudge him.

The rooms _don’t_ pander to her foolish wish and she returns to the parlor where Cassian is reviewing the data pad, waiting for cue to speak. She nods, putting the scanner back in the case. “All clear,” she says and points to the data pad. “Any changes?”

“No,” he says, frowning thoughtfully. “We’ll attend the first parade tonight, see who we see.” He meets her gaze and smiles. “See what _you_ can get. Then, regroup for tomorrow.” He looks up at K2. “See if you can get into the city’s data vault. Make some friends.”

“I don’t need friends,” K2 says in a sullen tone that distracts Jyn from the direness of their situation.

It can’t be _that_ bad, she decides. It’s _Cassian_.

+

The parade drags on all evening, a festival of lights and small explosions marking each year since the birth of the Empire, culminating in a massive fireworks display at the end. By the time they get back to their rooms, he just wants to pull off her boots and sleep. 

Instead, when the door closes behind them he heads for Kren’s case hidden beneath the single bed – a problem he’s going to solve – and starts checking the room for bugs. He’s tired from a week of travel and his body adjusting to the planet’s time difference but this is the job.

From beside him, Jyn pulls the scanner out of his hand and directs him to the bed. “Sit,” she instructs. “I’m wired anyway.”

“I’ll make tea,” he mumbles, heading to the kitchenette, and she tucks her chin, focusing on her task. 

By the time she finishes the scan – clean again – the kettle is whistling from the kitchenette. He’s pouring two cups when she comes in and hesitantly, she drifts closer to him. She’s a mix of hesitant and friendly, and the thread of nervous hope curls in him once more. 

He doesn’t know how to do this.

“We’ll get an early start tomorrow,” he says, pushing his hair back as his eyes droop. “How many pass codes did you copy at the parade?”

“Six,” she says, taking the cup of tea he offers and warming her fingers against it. “One technician, two majors, a colonel, a general, and a rear admiral who was sloppy.”

“None retired?” he asks, raising an eyebrow and she scoffs, her professional pride wounded. “No,” she answers, fighting the urge to roll her eyes and failing. “Good,” he says, sighing as his shoulders drop. “It’s late. You should get some rest.” He pauses, his mouth pursing in anticipation, before he makes the call. “I’ll take the couch.”

Her eyes snap to his and she frowns. “No,” she says, brooking no argument, and her eyes clench in clear frustration. “That would barely fit me.” She hesitates and adds, “It’s a big bed,” she offers 

His brain scrambles in surprise and he’s sure it shows on his face. She barrels forward, finishing her argument. “Besides, if someone shows up…” her voice trails off as she adds, “we need to keep up appearances.” 

He blinks past his exhaustion, the siren call of the bed tempting him. In the end, it wins and he nods in assent. 

“Alright,” he says and she smiles, a bright light in the dark apartment. “Soldiers bunk together all the time,” she adds and then belatedly seems to realize some error in pointing this out. “It’s fine. You can’t sleep on a bench for a month.”

He has, and he’s willing to bet she has, but he appreciates the gesture.

By the time he gets out of the ‘fresher she’s already climbed under the sheets and a foolish blush creeps along his neck. Casually reminding himself to get over himself, he slides under the sheets and his aching muscles nearly collapse under him with relief. Shutting the light, he turns his back to her, trying to give her as much space as possible. His mind is full of protocols and the plan for the next day – accessing any files the copied code cylinders Jyn swiped will grant them access to – when her voice pulls him back from the edge of sleep. 

“Cassian?” she whispers again, and he turns, finding her in the darkness. The bed doesn’t seem nearly as big as it did before and her hands curl close to his, the barest touch tightening his stomach. It looks like she wants to say something but instead she shakes her head and squeezes her eyes shut. “Good night.”

He falls asleep watching her even breathing and doesn’t question why.

+

She wakes up slowly, hazily, to the feel of a disappearing touch. Alarms go off in her head and she flips around, spotting Cassian sliding out of the bed and into the ‘fresher. She holds her tongue, watching him go, half-formed memories pulling at her consciousness.

Sometime in the night, the distance had closed between them.

She steals into the second ‘fresher, washing quickly and pulling on a robe before heading to the kitchenette. The schedule for the day is flexible; she isn’t sure what she should wear. By the time she has breakfast going, she hears the bedroom door open. 

“Are those real eggs?” he asks, his voice still scratchy with sleep, and she nods, turning to greet him. Her voice catches in her throat at the sight of him. He’s leaning against the bedroom doorframe and by his state of undress, she credits the smell of fresh food with his early appearance. His hair is still damp from the shower and he’s holding a towel around his waist, his neck arching forward as he sniffs the air.

“And bacon,” she says, turning around hurriedly and her voice cracking. “And fresh caf. Best I’ve had in years.”

He doesn’t answer and for a moment, she thinks he’s disappeared to the bedroom again when her skin prickles in awareness. He’s drifted closer and she leans her head back with an exaggerated sigh.

“Inspecting my cooking?” she asks, keeping her eyes firmly focused on the eggs. She’s not the best cook in the galaxy but with ingredients like these she can hardly go wrong. He hums noncommittally next to her and she catches the fresh scent of the soap mixed with something that smells like aftershave. It’s a strange, unfamiliar scent on him.

“I’ll get dressed,” he says, stepping back again, and her shoulders slump in relief. “Do that,” she instructs sharply.

(If she strains her ears, she’d almost swear he laughed.)

“Are we together today?” she asks, munching on toast and he shakes his head. “I get to attend speeches in honor of the Emperor,” he says. She nods, thinking about the names he’ll collect and pass on to Rebel Intelligence – governors absent from their home worlds, significant promotions, and who knows what else. “There’s a running reception for spouses,” he adds and she pauses mid-bite. “Are you up for that?”

_Mingle. Establish your cover. Make friends._

She nods with more force than necessary and Cassian tilts his head, pushing her. “Yes,” she says, swallowing her toast. “I’ve got this.”

_Eventually_ , she thinks to herself, ignoring the flutter in her stomach as she steals another look at him. Eventually.

+

They three regroup back in their rooms later that evening, Jyn back much later than Cassian or K2. He’d almost be worried except for the regular check-ins on their comms – two short clicks, one long – that came in every hour. He’d fallen asleep reading a data pad in bed and woke to her swearing as she stumbled in the dark.

“Sorry,” she says quickly as he sits up, “I couldn’t see.”

“It’s fine,” he says, waving his bedside light back on. “What took you so long?”

She has one knee bent on the bed, stuck mid-motion. Somehow, even in the dim glow of the bedside light, her eyes still burrow into his and something warm curls in her belly. 

“I got invited to a party,” she says, pulling the blanket back to get in. “It went long.”

He raises his eyebrows at her in the half-light and she makes a face at him. “A party?” he asks. She’s not exactly a people-person, especially on her own.

“I talked my way in,” she explains. The sheet settles around her abdomen and he lets out a subtle breath as he looks back at his data pad. “And?” he asks, prompting the rest of the story. 

“I met a technician at a reception,” she says. “She’s married to a general in weapons research. The tech – Maclar – didn’t know the details but was very proud.” Looking down, she pulls at a loose thread in the sheets. “She’s invited us to a dinner this week with the general.”

A delighted breath escapes him and he grins. “That’s good,” he says and pulls his hand back from where he had stretched it out to her. “That’s very good. Better than my day.”

“I figured while you’re with the officers at the dinner, I could slip away and leave a plant in their system,” she says. The distance between them seems cavernous and he shifts closer, eager but aware as always of what might throw her guards back up. “Figure out what the big new toy the Empire thinks it has.”

“What’s the general’s name?” Cassian asks and she pulls up the data pad to show him the summary file she’d found. “Tulia,” Cassian muses. “I wonder what he’s up to.”

+

The first week is fruitful in terms of intelligence but by the time they are attending Tulia’s dinner, Jyn is longing for some action. Playing dress-up and sweet-talking spouses is not her forte, but she’s starting to understand why Cassian asked her to come. He could handle the front matter; he needed someone he could trust to have his back.

And whatever else this mission was teaching her, she already knew that.

The general’s home is a half hour speeder flight away, fifty stories higher than their rooms by the Senate, and the servant who admits them provides a running history of the apartments for their benefit. Cassian’s jaw is clenched tighter than usual but, she reflects, it’s nothing a stranger would notice. For her part, she is determined to cause some damage tonight.

The dining table is almost full by the time they arrive, several generals and honored officers seated at various places of recognition with their partners. The servant leads them to a seat near the far end of the table from the general and Cassian frowns, likely assessing the quality of officers he’ll have to interrogate. Then again, he’s been frowning all night.

“It looks marvelous,” Jyn says, her voice dripping with her polished Coruscanti accent. It’s easier to switch back after several days of use and Cassian’s jaw clenches tighter as she circles away from Tulia. She’s hoping she doesn’t have to interact with him directly; her curtsy is still atrocious.

“It’s certainly an honor,” Cassian says, pulling out her chair and nodding at the officer seated to his right. “Captain Cassein Willix,” he says, introducing himself, and the lieutenant takes his head. “Willix?” the lieutenant asks and Jyn pretends to be fascinated by the silverware as she listens in. “Have we met before?”

“Have you been to Mintaka III?” Cassian asks with practiced amusement. “It’s a barren backwater. My wife and I have only just escaped after months of boredom.” It’s standard Imperial disdain for any Outer Rim planets.

“Can’t say I have,” the lieutenant answers and Jyn catches the same Alderaanian lilt she’s picked up from Princess Leia. One of the few, the dishonored, who still serve the Empire. “Don’t bother,” Cassian adds and pours the lieutenant a glass of water. “Where are you stationed?

The dinner conversation drags on through five courses of delicate food that leaves Jyn hungry and irritated. By dessert, she is failing to restrain the anxious tapping of her foot under the table. Smoothly, without interrupting his casual interrogation of the colonel across from them, Cassian slides a hand down her thigh to still her fidgeting.

She stops moving instantly, all her attention honed in on the warm spread of his fingers across her thigh. She forces herself to breathe instead of counting the nerve endings he’s touching and when her neighbor asks her a question she blinks and has to ask him to repeat it. Cassian is unaffected, his touch light as a feather as he eases information out of the colonel. She shifts under him, a flush building low within her, and his hand trails away. Aiming for calm, she reaches for her water and takes a long sip, nodding at her neighbor without hearing him.

When the spouses are invited to leave for card games, she practically flees. A mission at hand, she misdirects her way to a ‘fresher and down a hall where she’d spotted the general’s office on their initial tour. In the dark, she attaches a transmitter under the general’s desk and slips out before she’s spotted. One for the Rebellion.

But all the way back to their rooms, she can’t quite look at Cassian. He disappears to the ‘fresher and by the time he’s back, she’s faking sleep.

(Not well enough to fool him, she thinks, judging by the pounding of her heart, but still – )

“Jyn,” he whispers and she turns slowly in the dark, looking at him. He looks worried and suddenly she realizes that he doesn’t know _why_ she’s acting strange. She nervously licks her lips as he asks if she was okay.

“Fine,” she says, looking at his ear instead of his eyes. Saw had trained her well. She’s no fainting flower, she doesn’t understand why she’s having so much trouble – and then Cassian shifts next to her and her eyes find their own path. “Fine,” she repeats, closing her eyes on principle. “Just tired. Get some sleep, Cassian.”

(It takes her longer to fall asleep than she’s willing to admit.) 

+

Early in the second week of celebrations, a Major Tonson stops by their rooms unexpectedly for drinks. Cassian stalls him at the door long enough for Jyn to sweep Kren’s case and their weapons out of sight and the visit goes well until Tonson makes a comment that catches them by surprise.

“How long have you two been married again?” he asks and Cassian leans forward, not looking over at Jyn.

“Six months,” K2 says as if reading inventory. Cassian shoots K2 a look and looks back at Tonson. “Just over six months,” he repeats. “Are you married, major?”

Tonson frowns over his drink, swirling the amber liquid around in the glass. “Huh. Ah, no. I just thought you might have met more recently.”

Nerves settle in his chest and he smiles with an edge. “Kestra has that effect on people,” he says as Jyn nods in agreement. “I do,” she adds, leaning forward to refill Tonson’s glass, “with most people. He just got under my skin somehow.”

Tonson _harrumphs_ and Cassian wonders what is tipping him off. Maybe nothing. Maybe everything. Maybe K2. “Some Imperial wives are so flagrant,” Tonson says and looks at Jyn again. “You seem different.”

She shrugs and Cassian seizes the moment to redirect the conversation. Still, it’s a problem. If Tonson thinks there is something off, they need to regroup. He’s just considering if they need to go out more together – probably true – when Jyn looks at her chrono.

“Cassein,” she says, her voice dripping with her childhood accent, “I’m going to be late. The general’s wife!” K2’s head swivels to focus on her and for once Cassian wishes the droid would learn an ounce of subtlety. 

He nods, following her lead as she grabs her comm. But instead of making a run for the door, she moves to stand behind his chair. When he looks up at her, she leans down and presses a gentle farewell kiss to his lips, her hand cradling the line of his line. 

Ever so slightly, his neck arches to meet her better and she breaks away with a shaky sigh.

“I’ll see you later then,” he says, blinking in surprise and she waves goodbye to Tonson. The major looks at her go and shrugs.

“I don’t get them,” he says and Cassian writes him off. He’s just a common Imperial pig, nosy and unsatisfied. For all the things he’d like to say, he finishes off his drink instead and doesn’t refill Tonson’s again.

Once he’s gone, he signals _all clear_ to Jyn. She signals back the code for _research_ and he resigns himself to spending the night alone.

Maybe she really is visiting the general’s wife. At least _one_ of them should find out what Tulia is building.

+

By the third week, Jyn is starting to get frustrated about Tulia’s weapons research. Cassian had shrugged and explained that it took his months to put the pieces together about the Death Star. She believes him, but she also wants to do something. Weeks of small talk and parties are wearing her thin.

(Cassian himself, on the other hand, keeps her together. She’s not sure who is the backup for whom in this one after all.)

And despite the constant threat of death and discovery, it’s been better than she’d expected. She still hasn’t adapted to the sight of Cassian in the morning, or the way he steals away from where they’ve rolled together in the night before she wakes, or the way his scent lingers on the sheets after he’s gone. She’s never been surrounded by so much luxury and wealth in her life and yet in the midst of it, it’s not the soft bed or regular food or clean clothes that make it easier.

It’s Cassian.

(She’s known. She’s buried it, but she’s known since Scarif, if not before. There wasn’t the time.)

But now – now she’s fumbling with threads of hope she never would have held on to before. Maybe, in time. Maybe, if he ever felt the same.

“I have a mission for us,” he says one morning when she comes out for breakfast, her mouth already watering at the smell of his cooking. “Draven got a coded message in through one of the traders visiting for the celebration. K2 dug it out of the archives for us.” She leans against the counter, watching him turn the eggs over, and her skin prickles at the bare contact despite herself.

“Do I finally get to steal something?” she asks, doing just that with some of the fresh vegetables he’d set to the side before he could smack her hand away. He grins down at her, one of the rare open smiles he has, and nods. “If it goes well,” he says, “you’ll get to steal a lot.”

It turns out to be _quite_ a lot when they get the full details. They’re not just stealing codes or planting bugs in high-ranking offices this time. They’re going to _rob_ the Emperor. As part of the celebrations, planets have been sending additional tribute to Corcuscant. That tribute was deposited into various accounts and funneled into the Emperor’s private fund. Thanks to a Rebel saboteur, the transfer will use the same network as supports the celebration’s penultimate gala.

“I don’t see how they won’t notice a transfer this big going missing,” Cassian muses as Jyn checks the schematics. “We’ll have to be ready to disappear, just in case.”

“They won’t notice,” she promises. “We’re not going to steal it all at once. I’ve set up the system so after we divert some funds, the code at the source will update to match the code at delivery. The transfers will be small enough in each packet that they won’t notice until they try to reconcile everything at the end, which could take days.” She looks up from her data pad and smiles at his stupefied face. “Don’t worry, captain,” she adds. “I’ve done this before.”

He shakes himself into attention and leans over her, his hand gently resting on her shoulder as he looks at her work.

“And they won’t notice?” he asks again, taking in her notes, his breath fresh and sweet next to her.

“No,” she says, clearing her throat and turning the data pad off. “They won’t.”

+

They’re heading back to their apartments after a day of mingling with other officers and failing to learn anything about new weapons. They can’t ask too many questions, or too directly, but a prickling fear has settled within him about this one. He doesn’t know how it could be worse than the Death Star.

Jyn’s comm beeps at her and she frowns in confusion. It beeps again and understanding hits them both at the same time. One of the Rebel spies in the city is following up. Information usually flowed in one direction, but maybe they got lucky.

They follow the coordinates, winding their way deeper into the city, and he’s deeply grateful for how armed they both are, despite appearances. Disgruntled sabbac players and bouncers for Hutt gang lords lurk in the shadowy alleys of the city and Jyn steadies her gait, pulling him into her stride.

This is her world.

Their contact is waiting for them at the back of a seedy looking bar one hundred stories below light and Cassian squints to recognize her in the darkness. It’s not someone he knows but she has the passphrase and presses a data chip into his hand.

“We pulled the files from Tulia’s office,” she mutters, determinedly not looking around at the other patrons, and Jyn and Cassian follow suit. “He talks in code most of the time. Lots of crazy talk. Like he’s going to save the galaxy.” Jyn and Cassian exchange a look as she continues. “Seems like this time he thinks he’s got a weapon that can blow up a sun.”

Jyn blinks, staring at the woman, and the rebel takes a long drink from a grimy cup. “Seems like it’s a credit blowout,” she adds. “So they needed a ton of extra revenue for this one.”

The celebration, lasting a month but with so little substance. The tribute from the loyal citizens of the Empire. The assignment, tapping into the Emperor’s personal funds.

“Holy shit,” Jyn mutters and takes a drink out of the other woman’s cup, wincing at whatever she found.

They slip out the back and in poor luck, run into a rear admiral returning from a private visit. He stumbles into them, drunker than a senator, and snarls at Cassian to give rank and salute. He’s jangled but tries to comply before the admiral points at Jyn. “What’s this doing here?” he sneers, towering over Jyn. He spots her fist close tightly and pulls her back a few steps. “This is my wife,” he says, keeping his voice level, and the admiral laughs. “Backwater scum.”

Jyn doesn’t lash out – she barely jerks in response – but the admiral roars in outrage and gestures for his escort to restraint them. “Run!” Jyn yells at him, grabbing his hand and pulling him down a broken walkway, deeper into the city. He stumbles, trying to keep up with her, and nearly slips off a dark edge. “Cassian!” she cries out, yanking him back and he throws his weight back towards the center of the walkway. 

The half-hearted bootsteps of their pursuers fades into the distance as Jyn drags them further into the dank of the city, past seedy bars and seedier establishments. By the time they find a cranny rest in, she’s panting as hard as he is and fear lines her eyes as she takes him in. Like on Scarif, she can’t seem to find the words.

“I’m okay,” he says, catching his breath and leaning back against the wall next to her. “I’m okay.” He swallows hard and looks at her. “Do you know where we are?”

She nods, taking his hand again. “I do,” she says and at his questioning look she shrugs. “Research.”

(He follows her all the way home.)

+

The gala they are targeting is in what used to be the Jedi Temple. It’s a rare reference to the time before the Empire, a time that the Emperor crushed under his heel, but the reference is still gilded over. Jyn only recognizes the temple from pictures her mother had shown her, and barely that. 

“I memorized the layout,” she says to Cassian as they pass through a large crowd. A platform floats above them, crowded with other revelers, and she steels herself for the task ahead. This, she knows.

This, she’s done.

“Main computers, right,” he says and leads her towards the edges of the crowd. “It shouldn’t be too packed down there. You don’t need long?”

“No,” she says, stepping into a hoverlift and clutching the purse she’d brought with her. Aside from her comm, it contained a set of code cylinders that would override access to the computer and link her to the Emperor’s funds transfer. Hopefully, the credits they steal will be enough to stall whatever Tulia is hoping to build. She shuts her eyes, walking through the plan, and relaxes as Cassian rests his hand in the small of her back in a supportive motion.

They exit the hoverlift and the din of the gala fades away as they traipse deeper into the ruins. She needs a weak point, a place with weak security, and she’d pinpointed the spot on the holoprint. It takes them a while to find its location in the building. Once they do, it’s an easy task to sneak into the computer room and she gets to work, Cassian keeping an eye at the door.

“Are you in the system?” he asks and she nods, fingers tapping at the keypad as she accesses the saboteur’s override. Her reroute uploads, quick and efficient, and the moment it’s finished she pulls the cylinder out. The rest will run on its own now, routing the missing funds through a dozen bounced accounts all the way to a decrepit bank on the Outer Rim.

“Okay,” she says, dropping the code cylinders back into her purse and following him out the door. When he turns the corner, he peels back and takes her with him, shaking his head. _Guards._ They were still policing these lower levels and there were questions at the end of a blaster. She follows his lead, racing down the hall, and thanks the stars for her flat shoes. If she can’t have boots, she can still run.

Around another corner and down a hallway she doesn’t recognize, she’s struggling to keep their bearings. “We need to go up,” she gasps to Cassian and he nods, a steady jog by her side. He pulls open a stairwell and without warning, an alarm sounds across the level.

A string of curses she didn’t know he knew spill out of his mouth and they take off again. She can hear the patter of stormtrooper boots and her heart is pounding in her chest but she knows where they are. Pulling open another stairwell door, alarms already blaring, she leads them up a level, closer to the gala. 

Above them, the alarm still sounds.

They push past it, up two more flights and out of the stairwell before they’re caught. They’re still not back to the gala but at least they’re approaching plausible deniability.

Next to her, Cassian freezes, catching at her hand. Gears are turning in his mind as he steps them closer to the wall.

“I think we lost them,” she says, trying to catch her breath, and he shakes his head. “Not quite,” he says, and damned if she doesn’t hear an officer’s berating voice around the corner. His tongue darts out, wetting his lips, and her eyes lock with his. Her heart is still pounding from the race when he leans in, his body framing her in a secure embrace against the wall, heady and overwhelming. 

(She is still untangling the code in his gestures but this – oh this, she recognizes.)

She meets his gaze in anticipation, his hands settling at her hips, and briefly wonders whether this is absolutely necessary for the mission.

A moment later, with the sweet brush of his lips against her own, she decides she doesn’t care. He steps closer to her, lifting her higher, and blindly she cradles his face in her hands. She wants to be closer, wants this to be _real_ , and his kiss stretches out. An undignified sound escapes her and something shifts in his kiss, his hands falling lower as he presses her closer against the wall.

(She wants, she wants, she _wants_ – ) 

“HEY!” an officer yells in surprise at the sight of them and Cassian breaks the kiss, standing in front of her as she shakes her head, trying to collect herself. “This is an unauthorized area!”

Cassian steps forward, the light catching at his rank, and the challenging officer steps back. “My wife and I must have gotten off at the wrong level,” Cassian says smoothly and she wants to curse him for how composed he looks. “Apologies, corporal.” He finds her hand and she ducks her face in faux embarrassment, following him upstairs.

“Should we – ” she asks as they catch a speeder back to the apartments and Cassian looks down at her. She tries again. “That was part of the mission?” Her voice is less strong than she would like. His gaze is warm, delighted with victory, and she takes his hand.

“I think we’re done here,” he says, and something breaks alive within her.

(She thinks it might be hope.)

+

“I see you two are back,” Chirrut says cheerfully as they sit down next to him for breakfast. “Did you win?” Baze asks and Cassian cannot keep the smile off his face.

“We won,” Jyn says, but even her no-nonsense tone can’t keep the smile off her face. Bodhi looks at them both, practically vibrating with joy, and grins. “Did you guys – ”

“We’re keeping it quiet,” Cassian interrupts. They’d talked about it on the flight back from Coruscant, in hushed tones away from K2 who was surly at having little to do on the trip. Chirrut smiles but says nothing while Baze looks like he wants to say something more but just makes a happy grunt. 

“But yeah,” Jyn says, looking up at Cassian. “We won. This time, at least.”

“That is all we can ask for,” Chirrut says and Jyn nods. Cassian looks down at her, his head still spinning, and Jyn clasps his hand under the table.

(The happy thread of hope winds its way through his heart, taking root.

He’s happy to have it stay that way.)

_Finis_

**Author's Note:**

> I'm [ladytharen](http://ladytharen.tumblr.com) at Tumblr if you want to say hi :) Happy May the Fourth!


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